Piddling Around

I am waiting, waiting, waiting. I sleep (badly, barely) sitting up. I look out the window for inordinately long. I write thank-you letters. I read the Twilight series despite my scorn for popular literature. Though I cannot really bend down to tie my shoes, I hike miles daily with Sammy the dog in Tilden. My acute sense of smell is driving me crazy: Sammy always smells like maple syrup after running through the underbrush in the hills of Berkeley. The birthing tub smells like a pool. The kitchen smells like chicken because my wonderful husband/chef is making stock. I am waiting.